


Crying in the Shower

by Professional_Creeper



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29621280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: The wanton destruction of an expensive suit.
Relationships: Rafael Barba/Reader
Kudos: 24





	Crying in the Shower

The apartment was quiet when Rafael Barba arrived home, hanging up his keys on the hook and slipping off his shoes. He called out to you, but there was no answer. Odd. Your shoes were by the door.

“Cariño?”

As he wandered into the living room, he heard the steady hiss of water behind the bathroom door and breathed a sigh of relief. Knocking twice with the back of his knuckles, he entered without waiting for a response, and smiled as the hot steam hit his face and hydrated his dried-out sinuses. Winter hated him, and he relished the thought of slipping into the shower with you to warm up, lips quirking mischievously as he thought of what else he might do with you.

“Hey, cariño”—he slipped off his watch and set it on the vanity—“What do you think about that new place on the corner for dinner?”

Moisture dripped heavily down the tiled bathroom walls from the ceiling. The mirror was grey with large beads of fog. The air was tropical in a way Barba would have found pleasant if not for the fact that you still hadn’t answered. Just as his chest was beginning to tighten, he heard it: a low sob.

Throwing back the curtain, he found you huddled on the shower floor, your arms wrapped around your knees and your head buried in the nest of your arms. Shoulders heaving, you curled in on yourself as the hot water scalded your pruned skin.

In the next moment, he was at your side, kneeling on the hard floor to wrap an arm around you.

 _“No!”_ you screeched, flinching away until your reddened eyes opened, and for a brief instant, recognition flashed through them. Then you were clinging to his sleeve, gasping. Your sobs became louder, more desperate as you buried your face in the protection of his chest and his arms closed around you. The fabric of his pants soaked through instantly at the knees, submerged under the inch-deep puddle covering the bottom of the slow-draining basin. Water made a dull pattering sound on his clothed shoulders. Your naked back shivered under his hand—he rubbed slow circles, cradling you, whispering soothing reassurances as your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit.

After a few minutes, your breathing slowed. There was a long sniff, followed by a shorter one, and then you peeled your face away from his chest.

“S-sorry,” you mumbled.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” He stroked your cheek with his thumb, though it was impossible to tell what was tears and what was water. “I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you.”

“Thank y— _Oh!_ ”

Rafael Barba was wearing a dark grey suit, matching vest, a light blue shirt, and an orange tie. All of which were plastered to his body as hot water and steam rained down over him. The product in his hair that kept it perfectly coiffed all day valiantly held its ground, though it was beginning to get stringy, and little rivulets dripped off the pointed tips of each clumped lock.

“Oh, Raf… Your suit. I—”

“It will be fine,” he lied. “You know I’m always looking for an excuse to buy a new one, anyway.”

You smirked a little at that. His closet was stuffed with suits, ties, and suspenders in every possible shade and color, and it was true—he _was_ excited to have a vacancy to fill.

He helped you to your feet, wobbly from however long you were crying before he got home. You had been through a lot, and while you tried to be strong, he knew it was sometimes more than you could handle alone. He only wished you weren’t too stubborn to call him when things got bad.

The sound of steady dripping continued after you turned the water off. Barba didn’t want to make you feel worse—it was his own choice to jump in without hesitating—but the wool suit weighed about twenty extra pounds and clung to him in all the worst ways when he tried to move. And without the constant influx of hot water, it quickly grew cold and clammy.

You had stepped out and were beginning to towel yourself off when you turned back to see Barba standing frozen, dripping in the tub, unwilling to move. Though your eyes still held that melancholy dullness and were puffy with tears, a genuine smile broke out like the sun through storm clouds.

“Oh, cielito!” You snorted, pressing your lips together in an attempt to hold back a laugh. “Your poor little pout!”

You often said he made the cutest faces when he was miserable, which was fortunate for your relationship, because he was miserable a lot. When the barista forgot his second shot of espresso. When the temperature dropped below fifty and his nose was perpetually dry. When he was holding his arms out like foreign objects that did not belong to him because his sleeves were stuck to them and it felt _icky._

“Help me get this off?” he pleaded.

And you did, peeling each drenched layer off inside-out. But not before first pressing your forehead against his wet brow, softly capturing his lips in a tender kiss, and whispering, “I love you.”


End file.
